


Speed Dying

by Hatteress (goddammitstacey)



Series: Brag Verse [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Memory Alteration, Monster of the Week, Not Season 3 Compliant, POV Outsider, Succubi & Incubi, biting kink, handjobs, non traditional succubi and incubi mythology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddammitstacey/pseuds/Hatteress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets roped into speed dating because none of his college friends believe Derek exists. Derek thinks it's hilarious. Stiles thinks Derek's an asshole. Now he just needs to live long enough to tell him that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This little monster was commissioned by my winning bidder for the AO3 auction. It's WAAAAAAY overdue because I'm an awful human being. I'm hoping posting it up here will kick me into finishing it before I win the most unreliable of all the unreliable awards.
> 
> This is a follow up to [The Pope Would Brag](http://archiveofourown.org/works/686608). Context would help going in.

With the life Stiles leads, you'd think he'd be used to people tapping at his window at all hours of the night. The fact that he flails so hard his chair nearly spills him onto the ground kinda proves otherwise.

"Oh my god!" he says, clutching at his heart as he glares at Derek through the glass. The glass of his third story window, because Derek is a weirdo _freak_.

"Are you actually allergic to front doors?" Stiles asks, pushing the window up and stepping back so Derek can unfold himself into the room. It's times like this Stiles is glad he's rooming with a physics major – Kyle spends all his time either at the labs or at the bars. It's almost like Stiles lives alone.

"This way's faster," Derek says, because of course he does.

Stiles nods seriously. "I understand the haste to get all up in this," he says, waving a hand down at himself and manfully ignoring the way Derek rolls his eyes. "But seriously, this is probably why no one thinks you exist."

Derek's lips tick up into a smirk and wow, no – he does not get to find this funny, that's just not fair.

"I thought I didn't exist because you make me sound like a Greek god?" he says, pressing into Stiles' space until Stiles is forced to bring his arms up to catch around Derek's neck for fear of tipping backwards onto his desk. Derek's hair is soft. It's a hard life Stiles leads.

"You _are_ a Greek god," Stiles says, letting his head be nudged back so that Derek can nose up under his jaw. _Werewolves_ , seriously. "It's not my fault you're painfully good looking."

"You could not talk about me so much," Derek says, sucking a light kiss to Stiles neck. It's just enough to make Stiles squirm without really satisfying and Derek knows it, too; he huffs an amused breath across Stiles' skin when Stiles' fingers tighten in his hair.

"Screw that," Stiles says, groaning a little when Derek presses forward. "I'm boning the hottest guy ever. Bragging is practically mandatory."

Derek hums against his throat and Stiles has to bite his lip as he feels Derek's hands palm his ass through the thin cotton of his track pants. "Gah, _fu-_ how long do we have?"

"I have to be on the road by seven," Derek says, squeezing and rocking forward so that Stiles can feel— _god_ —everything.

Stiles groans, tugging at Derek's hair until he lifts his head. "That's only-"

Derek cuts him off with a kiss. It's warm, wet and when Stiles cants his head and _licks_ \- oh _hell yes_. "You asshole," Stiles says, pulling back. "Take your pants off, we only have four hours."

Watching Derek undress has to be one of Stiles' favourite things. Derek always strips with a careless sort of grace that Stiles only gets to appreciate for the first few seconds because, well, then there's all the _skin_.

"And you wonder why I brag," Stiles says, tossing the lube within easy reach on the bed before tugging his own shirt over his head. He gets as far as lobbing it in the direction of the hamper before Derek's pressed the length of him, molding himself to Stiles' back and okay, yep- they're wasting no time at all, apparently.

Stiles makes a sound that's just plain embarrassing, tipping his head back onto Derek's shoulder as he wraps careful fingers around Derek's wrist. Feeling the bunch and shift of tendons as Derek works him is probably a little higher on that list of favourites than the stripping thing. Just.

"A+ time management skills," Stiles gasps, bowing back so that his ass grinds against Derek's cock and he's just gonna burn that whole list analogy before things get out of hand, okay?

"How many times do you think you can come in four hours?" Derek says, and wow, _unfair_.

Stiles opens his mouth to answer but then Derek is swiping his thumb over the head of Stiles' dick on an upstroke and Stiles has to lean forward and catch himself on the wall beside his bed because _Jesus Christ_ , buttons: he has them.

"I get the impression we're gonna find out?" Stiles says.

Derek hums and hooks his chin over Stiles' shoulder as he finally pulls Stiles' dick all the way over the waistband of his pants. He always does this – always _watches_ – like his hands on Stiles is a show Fox would itch to cancel. Stiles kinda likes the contrast himself: the tan of Derek's fingers on the white of his hip; the red flush of his cock.

" _Jesus_ ," Stiles groans, "Can we-"

"No," Derek says, pressing a barely there kiss to the shell of Stiles' ear as he leans over to snag the lube. "Just like this."

Stiles feels his toes curl against the carpet and clamps down on a pitiful sound. "I'm gonna fall on my face when I come," he warns.

Derek's hand disappears for a second and Stiles can't do much beyond try not to whine like a three year old at the loss.

"How is that different from any other time?" Derek says.

Stiles' splutter turns into a groan when Derek's hand returns, gloriously wet and slick as his fingers press deliciously around the underside of Stiles' cock, thumb a rolling pressure over the head.

" _Shit_ ," Stiles says, scrabbling at the wall. Derek's arm anchors across his chest, pinning him back against solid heat and it's great – it's seriously fucking fantastic, because skin and Derek and Derek's skin but-

"Agh, you're an _asshole_ ," Stiles says, trying and failing to buck into Derek's hand. He can't move an inch here and he's probably clawing Derek's arm half to death but so not his fault, Jesus _Christ_.

"You're the one who said your legs will give out," Derek says and Stiles is so screwed because that's his _innocent_ voice. "I'm _helping_."

"You're _something_ , that's for damn- oh _god_ -"

Stiles lifts paint this time, which he's going to have to worry about later because Derek's basically given up all finesse and is jacking him with hard, fast strokes.

"Oh god, if you keep doing that-"

"Four hours, remember?" Derek says, all hot breath in Stiles' ear and Stiles gives up on the wall, just arches back until he can hook his hand around the back of Derek's neck and hold on. Derek doesn't even have to brace, just takes Stiles' weight and sighs into it, like Stiles is giving _him_ something. But then that's the Derek Stiles- well. Yeah.

"Oh my god, oh my _god_." Stiles jerks hard when Derek's next stroke sees his fingers detour, dragging delicious pressure down over Stiles' balls and it's a thing okay? Stiles has a balls thing. Ball play is the best play. "If you don't bite me I'm going to kick your ass."

It comes out less of a command and more of a wheeze which is probably why Derek huffs a laugh against his throat before licking up the tendon there.

"I marked you last week," Derek says, teeth scraping lightly like a giant, teasing _ass-face_.

"Exactly," Stiles says, " _Last_ week, Derek. There's a 'last' in that— _ah_ —that sentence. I signed on for bruises, remember? If you don't deliver I'll sue you for breach of contract."

"You're studying journalism," Derek reminds him, like an asshole. A grinning into his neck _asshole_.

Stiles shifts his hand from Derek's neck up into his hair and tugs, feeling his gut swoop when Derek groans and presses in a little harder but _god_ , still not hard enough. Well, two can play at _that_. Derek sucks in breath when Stiles grinds back against him, his cock a heavy dragging weight down the cleft of Stiles' ass and Stiles _wants_ , practically keens it until Derek fits his mouth just under Stiles' jaw and sucks, _hard_.

Stiles moans loud enough he knows he's gonna be getting dirty looks in the common room in the morning but he can't even begin to give one ounce of a fuck, because he can feel his orgasm sparking low down and—holy shit—he's gonna have the biggest hickey in the known universe. Stiles has just enough time to think, _fuck yes_ , before Derek's doing something glorious with his wrist and finally— _finally_ —biting down over the mark he's made and Stiles' orgasm ignites and rolls upwards, licking up his spine until he's arching with it.

" _Fuck_ ," Derek says, like _he's_ the one being wrecked here and Stiles can't do much beyond clench his fingers in Derek's stupid, soft hair and try to remember his own name.

"Oh my god," Stiles breathes, riding out an aftershock and- yep, there go his knees.

Derek catches him just like he said he would, pressing them both forward until they're braced against the wall and Stiles is beyond anything but resting his forehead against the surface and making pathetic little humming noises as Derek trails light kisses over the back of his neck.

"One," Derek says.


	2. Chapter 2

It's Monday which means The Brew is eighty-six percent college students and ninety-nine percent hungover people. Stiles has always said the cafe has no one to blame but itself for this because it serves a) the best coffee in town and b) the best grilled cheese on the west coast. Stiles didn't even know grilled cheese could _have_ varying levels of quality before he left for college.

He's one of the last ones there, by the looks of it – their mismatched little crew from Ethics 102 already slouched around one of the front tables. Stiles does a head-count and notes Rob's absence, which he's gonna count as a win because _all_ the coffee will be needed for the eye contact avoidance that's gonna happen there.

Stiles is an _a_ _dult_.

Bee-lining it towards Jennifer's shock of green hair, Stiles tries not to look toward the back of the shop where he and Derek had breakfast on Saturday morning; if he does that he's going to remember what happened _before_ breakfast and then he's never, ever going to stop blushing.

"Finally," Finn says as Stiles throws himself into an empty chair. "Did you have to actually sew the clothes you have on right now or something?"

"And gather the thread from silkworms," Stiles says, snagging one of Jennifer's toast squares. She pulls her egg away before he can get at it, though. Fun-suck.

"Get your own," she says, taking a sip of her chocolate-covered espresso, looking every inch the hipster college student she so is. Stiles would tease her more about it only he's the one with the black framed douche-glasses these days (Lydia's fault – bone structure, shmone structure).

Stiles' need for caffeine kicks him in the face with a vengeance and he waves down a waitress to order his own cup of godliness and a toastie, grinning all the while because he'll never be over everything on the menu sounding like something a Hemsworth would say. God bless Aussie expats who open coffee shops on the west coast.

Also, god bless Madison for shoving her leftover toast at him.

"You're my favourite," he says to her, snagging a piece of egg-covered crust while Maddie's ears go red.

Of all of them, Madison's the quietest. Stiles has only really heard her raise her voice once and that was at their history lecturer after the dude made a sexist comparison of England's monarchs. You do not screw with Queen Elizabeth where Maddie can hear you.

Stiles leans over for more egg and Finn makes a sound like someone's punched him. It's significant because Finn is a six foot four black dude who's build like a small army tanker; to say he doesn't get punched often is an understatement. "Jesus Christ, Stilinski," he says. "Were you attacked by an octopus?"

It takes Stiles a second to get it, by which point Finn has lent over and poked him hard in the neck. Right where Derek had spent three hours working the biggest hickey known to man into his throat. "Ow!" Stiles yelps. "Bad touch!"

"Holy crap," Jennifer says, yanking Stiles' chin to the side so she can get a look at the damage herself. "Go Rob."

Whoa _wha_ \- "Noooo!" Stiles says, slapping one hand over his neck to shield the thing from heinous false accusations. "This was _not_ Rob."

"Sure it wasn't," Jennifer says, smirking around her espresso.

Stiles opens his mouth to protest but then Rob's dropping down into the seat next to him, shedding his jacket like a goddamn runway model. "What wasn't me?"

Oh _god_.

"The hoover mark on Stilinski's neck," Finn says, and Stiles contemplates the logistics of crashing through the cafe's front display window to escape.

Rob's eyes flick from Finn to Stiles then down to Stiles' neck and holy shit, Stiles doesn't think he's ever seen anyone go so red so fast.

"It wasn't me," he says. Jennifer makes a disbelieving sound and Rob rolls his eyes. "Please, do I look that tacky?"

It's an automatic thing to kick at Rob's chair, earning himself a glare from the waitress who's finally delivering Stiles' coffee. But—thank sweet, baby Jesus—it's totally worth it, because Rob's _grinning_ at him and they're _fine_. Awkwardness averted. Stiles mentally steps down from def-con three and drags his cup towards himself.

"I think you're confusing the words 'tacky' and 'awesome'," Stiles says, taking his first blessed sip of caffeine.

"You look like someone tried to suck your heart out through your throat," Finn says.

"And it was _awesome_ ," Stiles says, trying not to get too glazed as he remembers just how true that statement is. Judging by the way Jennifer rolls her eyes he probably fails.

"Fine," she says. "It wasn't Rob. That just means you're free to tag tonight."

Oh man. "Please don't tell me you-"

"Speed dating!" Jennifer says triumphantly. Stiles isn't the only one who groans.

"I don't understand why we're friends," Finn says, slouching in his chair. The move succeeds in making him look the same size as everyone else.

Jennifer finishes her coffee. "Because one day I'm going to be a best selling author and you're gonna want a wing of my mansion," she says.

"Speed dating, though?" Stiles says, grasping his espresso to his chest like it's the blanket to his virginal maiden. "Really?"

"It's character study," Jennifer says.

"And Jodie Gallagher is going," Madison says, actually doing chin-hands and batting ridiculous doe eyes at Jennifer.

Jennifer grins. "That too."

"I have a boyfriend," Stiles says, pointing to his neck like it's exhibit A.

"Oh please," Jennifer says. "No one in a long-term relationship leaves those kind of marks. Just because you hooked up on the weekend does not mean you're getting out of this."

Stiles mouth drops open and he can't help the way he looks to Rob. Rob who splays his hands as if to say, _see_.

God _dam_ _mit_.

\- - -

_I'm going speed dating tonight_ , Stiles texts on his way to History.

_I'm laughing with you, not at you,_ Derek texts back.


	3. SOS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the added tags! For a full rundown of possible triggers, see the end of chapter notes.
> 
> Unbetaed because I'm the blurst.

Stiles has been friends with Jennifer since Rob tried and failed to hit on her in first semester. She's an animal rights activist, dyes her hair a different colour each week and is the only reason Stiles hadn't tanked his digital writing class. Stiles likes her.

Stiles does not like being dragged to every social event on campus just so Jennifer has new character prototypes (her words, not his) to apply to her stories.

"Oh my god, just pick one already," Rob says. "You're holding everyone up."

Stiles pinches his lip and frowns down at the table. The table that's covered in dozens upon dozens of coloured stickers, each one representing a sexuality.

"What's purple again?" he says.

"Polyamorous," Madison says next to him, leaning over to snag a blue dot.

Straight, Stiles remembers. Blue means straight. Avoid blue.

"And the green?"

"Asexual," Rob says. "Did you even read the freaking invite, Stilinski?"

Stiles scowls. "No I didn't read the freaking invite, I have a boyfriend!" he says. "Is there a colour for, 'I'm in a committed relationship even though all my friends think my boyfriend is imaginary'?"

Madison rolls her eyes and slaps a sticker on his chest. Stiles looks down at the cheery yellow.

"Congratulations, you're pansexual."

Well, that's…probably accurate. Stiles shrugs, following Madison across the room to the spare tables next to Jennifer.

The space is small, one of those back-corner bars that seem to be popping up around town in droves. Stiles is half expecting Rob to start complaining about the hipster chic, like the dude didn't spend four hours fixing his bow tie in the mirror before coming out.

"Please tell me there's booze," Maddy says, sliding onto a patchwork stool.

Each two person table is equipped with one sheet of paper and a plain red pencil. As Stiles claims his own stool, he feels vividly like he's sitting his SATs all over again.

"If there's not, I'm barrel rolling out the window," he says, snagging his pencil and twirling it around his fingers.

Jennifer snorts as she shifts in the stool next to Stiles, an orange 'lesbian' tag stuck garishly to her front pocket. "You guys are such babies," she says. "Finn's getting the beers."

Stiles grins and does victory arms. God freaking bless Finn's old family money and generous nature.

"How the hell did you even find out about this thing, Jen?" Rob asks, sliding into the seat across from Maddie and stirring a martini because of course he is. Stiles would roll his eyes but he's more interested in the answer to Rob's question.

When Jen had said speed dating, he'd imagined one of the college's giant, shoddily organised beer-o-thons, with maybe a few tables and a timer for the look of the thing. This isn't that. Looking around at the quiet, cozy set up with it's neat rows of red pencils, Stiles can't help but think…exclusive. This shit was definitely not on a community notice board.

"Jodie invited me," Jen says, grinning. "Said to bring my friends."

"I feel like Jodie may have thought you had cooler friends," Rob says. 

Stiles would take offence but he's just spotted Finn heading their way with half a dozen clinking craft beer bottles and that shit deserves a warm welcome. "Yooooo!"

Rob snorts. "See?"

"I am a bastion of grace and class," Stiles says, sticking his pencil behind his ear to help Finn hand out the booze.

"Sure thing, Bella Swan," Rob says, poking at Stiles' hickey with his own pencil. Stiles would flail but a) there's beer involved—he'd learned early into his college career how to remain expressive while staying dry—and b) a woman has stepped up to the short dais at the head of the room and is flicking through a sheaf of notes.

"Don't bring up Twilight around Maddie," Jen says. "You know how she gets."

Maddie squawks a little, which is never not funny. Maddie's hatred of Twilight is legendary and her rants are never not glorious. Stiles would be one hundred percent into watching the latest spiral into madness only…it's possible he's already watching one.

The woman on the dais looks up, catches his eye and…shit.

"If everyone will take a seat, we'll get started," the woman says, breaking Stiles' gaze to smile around the room. She's tall, maybe a little under six foot with posture that would make British royalty weep with envy. Stiles isn't really focusing on that, though. He's focusing on the smile. Bright white and just that tiny bit too sharp. If Stiles hadn't grown up in Beacon Hills, he might just be wondering what sort of dental regime she had going. But Stiles did grow up in Beacon Hills.

To the right of the bar, two men in pressed, button up shirts are closing and locking the front doors.

Stiles has never fired off a text so fast in his life.

* * *

Derek's dealt with a lot of crap. So to say that harpies are nearing the top of his shit list is actually a pretty bold statement. It's five am when the last one falls under his claws, six by the time he makes it home, tossing his totalled phone onto the couch as he shucks out of yet another bloodied shirt.

It's luck that sees him bump his computer awake as he passes. Luck that Stiles had bought him an iPhone for christmas; set it up to sync with his laptop.

SOS, Stiles' message says. Short. Simple. Terrifying. The pack doesn't use SOS lightly, not with the life they lead. Derek grabs up his spare phone, dialling as he wrestles a semi-clean shirt over his head and palms his keys.

The call goes to voicemail. Fuck.

It's a three hour drive usually. Derek burns through it in two hours, forty minutes. He burns through another ten or so unanswered phone calls as well.

By the time he makes it up to Stiles' empty dorm room, the sun is well and truly up and he is well and truly not panicking. One might say, _aggressively_ not panicking. The old shirt slung over the end of Stiles' bed is enough to kick his scent to the fore of Derek's brain; enough that picking up the trail of him out the door and down the stairs isn't impossible.

Once he hits the side walk, it's a little more difficult. Too many feet and too many emotions criss-crossing and flaring. Derek doesn't even realise where he's heading until he looks up and recognises the same cafe Stiles had dragged him to on Saturday morning.

 _"The best coffee ever,"_ Stiles had said, slim fingers circling Derek's wrist and tugging. _"I swear to god, I could die and still come here for coffee every morning."_

Apparently he hadn't been kidding.

Derek's heart does a weird, staggered _shudder-thump_ upon spying Stiles through the front window. His head is thrown back, laughing with his whole body at something another of the group at the table must have said. He's…he's fine. Hair mussed and eyes a little sleep smudged, but otherwise absolutely nothing about him to explain the message for help on Derek's smashed phone.

For a full, long second, Derek is so relieved he's amazed his legs don't give out. Then he's so pissed, he's surprised he manages to not rip the cafe door of it's hinges on his way in.

* * *

Stiles has one thumb in his mouth, sucking off a hunk of melted cheese when Jennifer whistles lowly.

"Holy hot-dude, batman," she says, gaze targeted over the lip of her coffee cup.

Stiles rolls his eyes, not even bothering to turn to the door. "You are the worst lesbian ever."

"I'm allowed to appreciate the aesthetics of the male form while wanting it no where near me sexually," she says, before abruptly jerking upright, eyes widening. "Holy shit he's looking right at us."

Rob looks up from pouring his third sugar packet into his latte and promptly chokes on spit, which Stiles is gonna get right on teasing him about just as soon as he's not catching sight of Derek—holy shit _Derek_ —scowling pointedly at him from The Brew's magazine stand.

"Wow, I'll just…" Stiles doesn't even bother finishing, practically falling out of his chair in his haste to get to Derek. Because this is bad. Derek does not just turn up unannounced. Especially not looking like he's run all the way here. Through the battle of Gettysburg.

"What're you- is everyone okay?" Stiles says, yelping when Derek grabs at him, warm palm sliding across his neck and down to his chest in one rough, perfunctory pet. Stiles can't help but feel like he's being checked for holes.

"I should be asking you that," Derek says, eyes flashing red and holy shit, he's _pissed_. 

It probably speaks volumes about Stiles' sense of self-preservation that his first instinct is to press closer. But he knows Derek. Derek only gets angry like this when he's had a scare. Stiles doesn't like Derek being scared as a rule.

"What-"

"You texted," Derek says, hand coming up to clasp the one Stiles has tangled in his jacket. "You texted SOS."

 _What?_ Stiles shakes his head, hands going automatically to his phone. "I didn't, I- why is my phone off?" 

Because it is, screen blank and oddly chilling. He never turns his phone off. Ever. Not since that fuckery with the elves in senior year.

"Probably so you can ignore the twenty or so calls I've been making since I got your message," Derek growls, raking a hand back through his hair. "Dammit Stiles, you can't-"

"I didn't!" Stiles says. There's something- an awareness nudging at the back of his mind. Something he's missing. He can't catch it, though. It keeps slipping away from him and Derek is right here – right here and- okay, yeah, if Stiles had got an SOS from _him_ and not been able to get in touch?

Stiles grabs Derek's hand, pulls it up to his own neck and presses his palm flat. Whether it's a wolf thing or just a Derek thing, Derek always calms with Stiles' pulse where he can feel it. "I'm okay, okay?"

Derek's still glaring, but his eyes waver, breath going loose as he thumbs at Stiles' pulse point. "You can't just text-"

"I know," Stiles interrupts. "I know okay, and I swear I-"

Stiles' phone chimes on, screen flicking straight into his messages and- _shit_. SOS. It's there. Right there in his sent messages.

The alien sense of _wrong_ grows sharper in his mind. "I don't remember…"

Derek grunts. "How drunk were you last night?"

He's giving Stiles an out. Giving them a chance to laugh over this tomorrow and Stiles would – Stiles would totally apologise, maybe make it up to him with a blow job later but-

Stiles thinks back to last night. Speed dating. Jen had dragged them speed dating. He remembers shoving Finn jokingly off the curb outside the bar; Maddie slapping a yellow sticker to the front of his shirt. He remembers sliding into the stool and then…nothing.

Something grips him deep down and cold. When he looks up, whatever it is must show on his face because Derek frowns, hand going still on his neck.

"Derek, _I don't remember_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles goes to speed dating only to wake up the next morning to find his memories of the night before have been wiped. There's a healthy amount of unease when he realises what's happened. 
> 
> Please note, I will not be touching any sexual non-con with a ten foot pole! The succubi and incubi in this story are not your usual kettle of fish. I'll be warning for any possible triggers as I go with the story, but feel free to come at me off anon on [tumblr](http://hatteress.tumblr.com) and I'll let you know what'll be coming up.


End file.
